Will A Bullet Shot Kill A Man?
by Trixie3
Summary: Duo's thoughts as he sits beside his wounded lover. 2+5/5+2


Title: Will a Bullet Shot Kill a Man?  
  
Author: Trixie  
  
Part 1/1  
  
Rating: PG-15 (just for language)  
  
Pairings 2+5/5+2  
  
POV: 1st Person: Duo (it _could_ be Wufei if you want, but I wrote as Duo ^_~)  
  
Warnings: Language, Death  
  
E-mail: goldynangyl@yahoo.com  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing, I am writing only for entertaining purposes.  
  
Notes: This little fic is styled like my other piece 'Irony' - I only seem to be able to write a decent 2+5 piece through this 1st POV style with the Duo's thoughts running rampant. I'm trying to write a 2X5 through my usual writing style (3rd person), but for some reason I'm having trouble. Gah. . Ah, well. Oh, and yes, there is death once again. If you feel that the ending is too abrupt, I will happily write another ending - perhaps with some suggestions and criticism? ^_~ Thank you very much for reading. Comments/critique is appreciated, but not demanded. ^_^  
  
_blah_ = emphasized words  
  
... = pauses in speech  
  
  
  
Will a bullet shot kill a man?  
  
Well, I suppose it depends on where the person is shot, right?  
  
But I just find a little ironic that such a small and lifeless thing can render death upon a living body – young or old, healthy or sick.  
  
Bullets by themselves are harmless chunks of metal, yet they are so very lethal when they're shot.  
  
Hell, I've been shot before.  
  
Several times – six times to be in fact. I've got the scars to prove 'em.  
  
And oddly enough, I'm not dead.  
  
I've also shot other people.  
  
All of them are dead. I made sure.  
  
Well, except Heero, he's the only exception.  
  
But otherwise… it's just hilariously ironic.  
  
Life's that way, you know… one paradox after another.  
  
I suppose that's just how things go.  
  
I'm going off topic. Let's go back to my original question.  
  
Will a bullet shot kill a man?  
  
Again, it depends. And again, I wonder how something so not alive can take the light out of someone's eyes and make his life seep away.  
  
I suppose I'll never understand.  
  
But see, the real irony here is that you've been shot just as many times as I have.  
  
And oddly enough you've survived all of 'em too.  
  
Well except this time.  
  
Actually, let me rephrase that. You haven't survived this one yet.  
  
But will you?  
  
God – if there is one – I hope so.  
  
It's just really hard sitting here knowing I can't do anything to guarantee that you will make it.  
  
That's what has lead to me my ponderings…  
  
I've had lots of time of my hands lately.  
  
Actually, now that I think about, I believe that I've been asking the wrong question.  
  
It's not if a man will die from a bullet shot, but how does he die from it that puzzles me.  
  
Yes, I know that a bullet can do all sorts of wonderful things to the body tissues such as rupturing, tearing, and/or severing them. I know the mechanics of the body.  
  
Trust me, I know them all too well.  
  
But despite all that, it doesn't account for the whole entire being, the soul, dying.  
  
Why does a man not die if he's shot in the leg in comparison to a man who is shot in the chest?  
  
And even then it depends on where one is shot in the chest.  
  
I haven't even taken in the account of bleeding to death either. But that's not my point.  
  
Why does it even depend?  
  
If you were shot 2 cm to the left, you would've been instantly dead.  
  
Instantly.  
  
I can't even begin to fathom that word or the implications that it inspires.  
  
It's too final for me.  
  
But I've shot people too. And they died – instantly.  
  
I just don't like to think about it.  
  
But dying is dying – instantly or not.  
  
You're dying, aren't you?  
  
You're just dying slowly, struggling with each breath to stay alive.  
  
You're trying, aren't you?  
  
You damn well better be trying.  
  
I…  
  
I don't want to lose you.  
  
Yeah.  
  
I'm going off the subject again. Sorry.  
  
Well, like I've said before, you've been shot loads of times. I've seen your scars, I can tell you where every single one of them is located. There's the one on the back of your upper right arm. Then, there's the two from that bullet that went clean through your left shoulder – that wound had been messy. Also, there's the one on your on your right calve. The bullet that hit there had shattered your bone. You never got that fixed properly – but I suppose we didn't have time to let our wounds heal, ne?  
  
I'll stop. I can continue to tell you where all your scars are, but I'm not. It's pointless to do so.  
  
But will I get to memorize the scar that you'll get from this shot or will this be the one that won't become a scar?  
  
Dammit. I want answers.  
  
…  
  
Sorry, I didn't mean to lose my temper.  
  
It's just so frustrating to sit here, absolutely helpless while my mind just wanders and wanders, leading me to questions that clearly have no answer.  
  
I'm slowly going insane.  
  
Really.  
  
I have nothing to do besides think when I'm in here.  
  
Staring at your pallid form doesn't do much for the thought processes – no offense or anything. I just can't stare at you too long; it's too depressing.  
  
So, I think.  
  
Well, that's depressing too.  
  
Dammit. I'm going in circles again.  
  
…  
  
The silence is getting to me too.  
  
That's why I'm talking so much and so randomly. I have to keep the silence at bay.  
  
It's like I've stepped into a void or something. There's just this cold, eerie silence that smothers me.  
  
Smother. That's a good word.  
  
Wait, stifling is even better.  
  
See, being around you does have its perks. My vocabulary has already increased. You'd be pleased.  
  
But yes, the silence is stifling.  
  
Do you know what I mean when I say silence? I'm not talking about being devoid of sound – not that at all. That heart monitor and your rasping, struggling breaths are loud enough as it is.  
  
What I mean by silence is the lack of… life.  
  
I know, I know. It doesn't make sense. Life doesn't make sound, but to me it does.  
  
Life has a feeling, sound, taste, etc. all its own. I don't know how to describe it – it just does. Maybe Quatre can describe it better than I can; he's more capable of expressing what's usually inexpressible.  
  
But back to my point – does this make any sense? – there's no life in this room, it is as if death has already claimed it. The room is too sterile, too foreign from the daily bustle and electricity that life generates. The room is cold.  
  
But I don't dare leave.  
  
Why?  
  
I'm afraid – yes, afraid – that if I leave, that coldness, that void will claim you. It's winning, but I'm trying to keep it at bay by sitting here, talking to you. If I leave you alone, you'll have no barrier against it. I'm trying to instill life back into you, allowing you to draw on my strength to win this battle…  
  
Well, that's what I like to think I'm doing anyway.  
  
I'm being arrogant. You could very well die regardless of my presence.  
  
I know.  
  
But I like to think that I'm helping.  
  
I've lost too much due to my inability to help.  
  
So, humor me.  
  
Please.  
  
And don't be sarcastic about humoring me either. I know you have a streak for being sarcastic – and hell, I love it, but don't you dare humor me by flat-lining.  
  
Understand?  
  
…  
  
Good. I thought you would see the pros of not being sarcastic.  
  
See? It's not so bad listening to my little ideas every once in awhile! Sure, I'll admit, I've come up with some rather … radical ideas that haven't exactly turned out too well, but I do come up with some spectacular ones every blue moon – like the one where I suggested we go to that refuge… well, actually, I think Trowa mentioned it first, but hey, that doesn't really matter, now does it?  
  
…  
  
I'm sounding pretty stupid right now, aren't I?  
  
Well, if I am, I'm sorry.  
  
Yeah, and I know that if you were awake, you'd hit me with a bookmark or something – just to make me shut up for a second – and tell me that I shouldn't apologize for something so trivial.  
  
I know.  
  
I just can't help it.  
  
…  
  
Man.  
  
Some company I turned out to be. You'd think I'd have more to say, huh? But interestingly enough, I don't.  
  
I really don't know what to talk about. It's not like I can talk about the weather you know – well, now that I think about, I can… but it won't really matter because even if the sky falls down, it won't be real. The only thing that's real is you, me, and this room.  
  
That's it. My whole reality, at this moment, consists of those three things.  
  
Oh, I forgot. There's four things, actually.  
  
The other is that heart monitor thing that maps out your heartbeat – a nurse told me what it was scientifically called, but I don't think I was listening.  
  
Oh well.  
  
But yeah, it makes these really irritating beeps every time one of those squiggly lines appear – not that I'm complaining. I like those beeps.  
  
Really.  
  
It's better than a prolonged keening buzz.  
  
Tons better.  
  
Anyway, those squiggly lines are a little too flat and far between for my liking, but like I said before, I'm not complaining. As long as they still blip along that screen, I know you're still with me. And when they don't blip anymore…  
  
But they won't stop blipping, right?  
  
The squiggly lines will get more extravagant and bunch up together and the little machine'll just beep like there is no tomorrow…  
  
Hey, listen!  
  
It's beeping faster now!  
  
Can you hear it?!  
  
Can you?  
  
Listen!  
  
It's beeping so fast, you can't distinguish the beeps from each other!  
  
I have to go tell someone – no wait, I don't want to leave – I _can't_ leave... It might stop beeping.  
  
We can't have that happen – not at all!  
  
No sir, we can't.  
  
Actually, now that I think about it... this is amazing… I never knew a beep could register so quickly, it's almost as if all the beeps are making a prolonged keeni –  
  
Shit.  
  
~Owari~ 


End file.
